


A Marriage of Convenience

by darthsydious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is such a boss, F/M, mollcroft brotp - Freeform, victorian!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthsydious/pseuds/darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock is sick of his mother constantly haranguing him to settle down, so he strikes up a happy alliance with Molly Hooper. Will Mycroft approve? One-shot
Relationships: mythea - Relationship, sherlolly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 94





	A Marriage of Convenience

“I couldn’t care less what my wife does in her spare time, so long as it isn’t wasted on dull fripperies,” Sherlock flourished the bow of his violin, glaring at the embroidery hoop in his sister in-law’s hands.

“I happen to _like_ embroidery,” Anthea said. “Mostly to frustrate you, but it helps me think, much like your tenacious sawing on your violin.”

“I do not ‘saw’ on it.”

“If you say so,” Anthea smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “So. What _does_ your wife do then?” Sherlock turned to his sister in-law, his chest puffed out, positively reeking of pride.

“She’s a pathologist.”

If he was hoping to shock Anthea, he was sadly mistaken. She merely quirked a brow, fighting back a grin.

“Mycroft said she worked in the hospital, but of course knowing you I should have known it was nothing so plebian as nursing.”

Sherlock Holmes had married over the summer, honeymooned in Paris, and returned by early fall. A marriage of convenience, in the sense that the woman was a good friend of his (that was a hell of a convenience), and it put an end to his mother’s endless prattling, attempted set-ups and poorly constructed chance meetings. Anthea was eager to meet the woman who had captured her brother in-law’s heart (he claimed it was nothing of the kind, but she knew better).

_**Three Months Earlier** _

_After a particularly sour society matron shoved her daughter into his arms, Sherlock had had quite enough, fleeing to the safety of St. Barts where there would surely be no eligible ladies of society tittering over his fortune and odd behaviors, no mothers nagging him about grandchildren or questioning his choice of employment. There he’d met with Dr. Molly Hooper, a woman of exceptional caliber who had assisted him on countless occasions, was not in the least squeamish and always had a listening ear. Still fuming from the day’s events, he shared all while she cut into a portly judge (died of supposedly normal circumstances). He paced and railed, complaining that he would never be free of his mother’s endless parade of eligible women._

_“Why not simply get married?” Molly suggested. Breathless, a few curls coming loose, she bore down and the rib-cage cracked under her weight. She gave a grunt of relief- that was one job done. Sherlock paused, allowing himself to admire her. Her cheeks were rosy, despite the coolness of the morgue; her hands were deft and capable, slicing away fatty tissues and arteries to remove the rather purple and bulbous heart from the chest cavity. Molly Hooper might not have been the pale, elegant ladies of the high society, but she was particularly pretty in her own right, to borrow a phrase from Detective Lestrade, ‘plump and pleasing’ seemed proper. Her mouth, some deemed too small, fit her just so, and her eyes (currently fixed on the organ in her hand) were attractive and sharp. Often Sherlock scoffed at the small-minded men who turned up their noses as educated women. They dismissed such a lovely creature simply because she’d been to school. What a shame. Realizing he had not answered her, he shifted from foot to foot._

_“What good would that possibly do?” he asked. She looked up from turning the organ over in her hands._

_“It’d shut your mother up for starters. Will you be needing this?” she gestured to the heart and he nodded._

_“Please.” Nodding, she set it in a bowl, covering it with a clean cloth before returning to the corpse. “Who would I marry?” was his next question. He scoffed before she could even answer. “Oh it’s ridiculous! I couldn’t put on such a pretense. The woman would be miserable, not that it matters so much to me, but I’d rather not have a bitter soul in my house, flopping about and filling Baker Street with her quilling and lace folderol, she’d only be in the way, using the parlor for tea when it should have case files and relatives of murder victims, she’d probably get rid of Billy, whomever she would be. She wouldn’t be my equal, and I shouldn’t demand anything less if I’m to be saddled for life.”_

_“I quite agree,” Molly nodded. “Quite the same as my problem. No one wants a woman who’s got a better education than them, or one who doesn’t swoon at blood or, for that matter, who cuts open bodies and assists Scotland Yard and certain consulting detectives on gruesome murder cases.”_

_“Hm,” Sherlock smirked at this then, some mean gladness that he could appreciate Molly in a way that so few men could, the exception being Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade._  
_“What about that woman, that Ms. Adler?” Molly asked. “You were keen on her for a time, however briefly, and she did manage to beat you at your own game.” Sherlock immediately shook his head._

_“Tempting, but no. I think she and I would rather end up killing each other.” He sighed, taking a seat by the counter. “If there was any woman that I must marry, I think it would be you, Doctor Hooper.” Sherlock seemed so candid about the entire thing that she looked up, alarmed._

_“Me? Good heavens, why would you want me?”_

_“You’re clever,” he shrugged. “You’ve a mind of your own and use it, a feat too few of my colleagues have yet to master. I admire you for attending a university, especially for being top of your class, your caliber in your chosen field is unmatched, your choice of music is pleasing, your clothing budget is modest, and you are pretty.” He paused, licking his lips. “And as far as I know, you don’t embroider. I don’t know of your reading habits, I imagine you don’t read ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ all the time.” She quirked her lips into a smile._

_“Not all the time. I’m afraid I’ve got a bad habit of picking up penny dreadfuls.”_

_It took some time to convince her he was serious. After a month of courting (she insisted, and to prevent the rumor of scandal, he agreed). Naturally, introductions to parents had to be made, at least on his side, as Molly’s family was all deceased. Afterwards he’d brought her away to Paris, (she’d always wanted to go) and with each passing day, Sherlock praised himself on his choice of bride._

**Present Day**

“Sherlock,” He blinked, suddenly remembering that Anthea was talking to him. “Are you listening?”

“No,” He shrugged, turning to face her. “Apologies, what did you say?”

“I said shall I ring for tea?”

“Don’t bother, Molly will when she comes in.”

“Mycroft is still upset with you for not inviting us when you brought her to meet your parents.”

“Are you? Upset I mean.”

“My feelings are hurt a little, but I suspect it was out of not wanting to overwhelm her with so many Holmes’ in one sitting,” Anthea shrugged.

“I didn’t want Mycroft to spoil everything as he so often does. No one in his eyes will measure up to you, and heaven help Molly if he found a single flaw in her, he’d pull her apart.” Anthea cleared her throat, and Sherlock frowned. “Anthea?”

“Well,” she sighed heavily. “You may as well know, he’s already met her,”

“What?!”

“He invited her to tea yesterday, and she accepted, did she not say?”

“She said she met someone…” he frowned, thinking carefully. He’d been busy sorting through case files. He must not have heard her. Anthea looked at her fob watch, checking the time. “Well…what does my big brother say about her then? Too little? Too plain, her line of work is shocking-“

“On the contrary, she is very charming,” both turned to see Mycroft in the doorway, Molly holding her hat and gloves. Sherlock went to her side immediately and she rose on tip-toe to press his cheek. “Did she not say?”

“I didn’t,” Molly said to her brother in-law. “I hate bragging.” Sherlock glanced between his wife and sister in-law, then stepped back, gesturing between the two of them.

“Molly, this is my sister in-law, Anthea Holmes, ‘Thea, this is my wife.”

“It’s good to finally meet you,” Anthea smiled. “I was just on my way to find Mrs. Hudson; shall we leave them to it?”

“Oh yes,” Molly led the way, smiling back at Anthea. “And you must promise to use my first name, we’re family now-“

“Only if you return the favor-“ Anthea said as the parlor door swung shut behind them, cutting off whatever else Anthea was saying.

“So,” Sherlock bounced on his heels. “Come on then, what’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing.” Mycroft shrugged, hands in his pockets, Sherlock scoffed.

“’Nothing’?!” He shook his head, quite disbelieving. “Mycroft you find something wrong with everything, including, I might point out, your own wife!”

“No one is perfect,” Mycroft shrugged. “But Doctor Hooper,” he cleared his throat. “Er, Holmes, is quite suitable for you. I should be surprised I never thought of her sooner for you.” Sherlock stared at his brother, shocked. He had expected his brother to quietly demand an annulment, to pack Molly off to some out of the way village hospital in the north and send Sherlock to Somaliland. Instead here was his elder brother seeming perfectly content with his choice of bride. “What’s the matter, Sherlock? Were you hoping for my disapproval? I’m afraid you’ll have to live with your choice. Mother won’t tolerate divorce in the family.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft very carefully, and then slowly, he smiled.

“What did Molly tell you?” Mycroft blinked, his expression blank.

“I don’t know what you mean, Sherlock.”

“You disapproved of Molly Hooper’s station from the beginning, why the sudden change of heart?”

“I never said a disapproved, good God, you make me sound medieval,” Mycroft snorted. “I said her skills were untested in an operating theater, therefore she should not be trusted with any living patient,”

“She threatened you, didn’t she?” Sherlock guessed. “She took the piss out of you!”

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft protested at his brother’s coarse language. He shifted uneasily, tugging on the cuffs of his jacket. “She did nothing of the kind, she merely…explained her relationship with you.”

“Why did she have to explain it?” Sherlock asked.

“I may have suggested her intention of marrying you was merely to advance her social standing.”

“She absolutely pulled a knife on you,” declared the consulting detective, who collapsed in his chair, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Yes well…I suppose she had a right to be offended.”

“The way you probably posed the question, she most likely did,” Sherlock nodded. He sobered after a moment. Mycroft stooped, picking up the over-turned chess board and the box of pieces. He set them on the table between them. Leaning forward, Sherlock began to separate the pieces.

By the time the women returned to the parlor with tea, they were well immersed into their game. Molly and Anthea were already fast-friends, and all-too-happy to leave them to it. They sat across the room, talking about Molly and Sherlock’s honeymoon and all the best places to shop in Paris. Sherlock glanced up from the board at the women, crooking a small, nervous smile at Molly as she glanced his way.

“You do approve of her though?” he asked quietly. Mycroft looked up from the board.

“Does my opinion matter so much all of a sudden? You’d have married her whether I liked her or not.”

“Hmm. Yes, but you see she’s quite determined to like you, as she’s never had a brother before, and as it looks like she and Anthea are to be the very best of friends, one can assume you will be seeing a good deal of her in the future.”

“Well…” Mycroft turned his attention back to the board. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough from her, but I told her yesterday that I am certain she will be perfectly suitable to the task of being your wife.” Sherlock shifted his pawn, capturing Mycroft’s queen.

“Checkmate.”

“That doesn’t mean I like her,” the elder Holmes insisted.

“Oh no, of course not,” Sherlock said, clearly disbelieving. “You dislike Molly,” he picked up the chess piece, tossing it in the air. “As much as I dislike Anthea.”

“Humph.”

“It’s convenient, having the other’s approval, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, getting to his feet.

“Terribly.”


End file.
